A Basic Haircut

An important question presents itself: what to do about the hair situation? I could spend $2 for a haircut, but the male trainees who have visited the local barbers so far would have been better off giving a rusty tuna can lid (as Patton Oswalt might say) to a toddler and saying “have at it!” Instead I gave my electric shaver to Jordy and asked for a basic haircut. What I ended up getting was a haircut for basic training. I thought Jordy was a safe choice because she's Italian and went to art school. But perhaps one should not entrust their head to a modern Italian artist – they might pursue a harsh premise, such as the Fellini Creative Crisis look, or in my case the Timothy McVeigh coif. But I joke, actually I quite like my first “buzz cut.” It’s fun to run your hands through it, I don’t need much shampoo, and it’s COOL. While I can’t really see what it looks like (my mirror is missing so I have to resort to looking in puddles of water), ladies of various nationalities have given me good reviews so far. "Nte shebib," they say (in my head), which means "you lookin' GOOD!"

=== We Love Maaouiya!!! ===

As you might have heard, there was reportedly an attempted coup d’etat in Mauritania. The political situation is truly a mystery to me 400 km from the capital, and don’t worry, I’m not in any danger, I swear! As a response to the “events” in the capital, a pro-Maaouiya rally was staged in Kaedi the other day. That’s President Al-Taya’s first name; apparently everyone knows him very well as you always refer to him as Maaouiya. The rally consisted of a few hundred, maybe thousand people who wandered around town shouting slogans and hob-nobbing with ministers and semi-bigwigs (Maaouiya stayed in Nouakchott). 1950’s looking trucks loaded down with happy but slightly bored looking folks and sporting a loudspeaker sputtered dust, smoke, and happy slogans along the road.

My vantage point was the roof of the auberge behind Sydu’s epicerie, where we talked Mauritanian politics. “Sydu,” I asked. “If you went out there and started saying ‘Maaouiya sucks! I hate him!’ would you go to jail?” “No,” he said with a smile, “but it would not be a good idea.” The conversation later turned to the United States and immigration (coincidence that talking about local politics makes him think about leaving?). “I know a guy,” he began, “who went to America for six months to work, and when he came back he built an enormous house, bought a new car, and got nice clothes.” I nodded, trying to guess where he would go next. “And do you know what he did there?” I shook my head. “He slept on the street, and everyday for money he would take peoples' dogs for a walk. That’s all!” I asked Sydu if he would do that if he had the chance. “No, not me,” he replied. "I want to stay here." But what if I could get Sydu a visa to the States, would he come? He’s single, no children, and he’d drive a cab, sweep up, mow someone’s lawn, and probably even walk their dog if he had to. Sheikh, the manager of Sydu's sums up a common feeling here. "I want to go to America to work, but I'm afraid of America." Afraid of what, the culture, I ask? "No, I hear that a violent crime happens every second!"

=== The Near Death Players ===

Town Hall Meeting – the periodic talent show at the Peace Corps training center has been an unexpected bonus for me. I’ve become the de-facto master of ceremonies and have been able to re-explore the realm of stand-up comedy. But I’ve thrown away my old open-mic shtick (sorry, or you’re welcome?); now all my jokes are about goats, gastro-intestinal distress (ok, no change there), bad food, and sometimes donkeys. It’s fun, even if the materials works about as reliably as a bush taxi. And I’ve even thrown in a few guitar performances to torture the audience in different ways.

For the most recent show I decided to try my hand as a playwright of sorts. In between classes I hammered out a one-act about a Peace Corps trainee going in for an evaluation with the Director. The boss calls him the worst trainee he has ever seen (You SUCK at the Peace Corps!). But it turns out he has the wrong file – same name but wrong year. He’s actually a model trainee and all is forgiven. Get it? Ok, so it’s no Moon For the Misbegotten, but it's my first attempt. As for the casting, the aloof director was perfect for Tarn, our highly-cultured PCT who isn’t afraid to drop “Tristan und Isolde” into conversation. And the trainee had to be Keith…why? I dunno, Keith just has that ability to connect with an audience, and, well, he’s easy to talk into last-minute stuff. They both agreed, but a couple hours before showtime, we have a problem. My stars are sick. Keith is laying down "in his trailer" groaning like a donkey pulling 50 sacks of rice, and Tarn is limping around the lycee with a Tubercular cough that echoes all the way to Selibaby. “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Keith says, looking up at me from his mattress. “Hack hack- I’m up for it- hack hack hack,” Tarn assures me amidst a fit of consumption. But when showtime rolled around they were dynamite. The skit went over well, despite the fact that the writing was too dense and the punchline slightly mixed up. Keith’s character grabbed his file from the director, “Hey, this file says 2004!!!” Uh, Keith, you’re supposed to say 1994, I say silently from the audience. “It IS 2004, John,” Tarn shoots back. Oh well, it’s Town Hall Meeting, not Masterpiece Theatre.

To make the moment even more surreal, the table serving as the Director’s desk was covered with about 50 opened condoms, left over from the medical session “demonstration” that morning. Your tax dollars at work… ;)

=== Riddle of the Week ===

What has thicker skin than an elephant, makes you cry, and is green, is the size of a grapefruit on the outside, and is the size of an orange on the inside? A Mauritanian Grapefruit!

=== Into Africa ===

Banana trees with their wide floppy leaves hanging down. Sprawling vegetation and oppressive humidity. This is the “Africa” that many have in mind when they apply to Peace Corps. Man do you get a raw deal in Mauritania, where you’re lucky to see a tree every 50 feet, and you soon learn to recognize 100 shades of brown. But the other day we got to go to the REAL Africa, a citrus grove near the village of Rindiau (just 10 minutes by car outside of Kaedi proper). Situated right on the Senegal river and well irrigated, this lush oasis of fruit trees is a rare site in Mauritania. Of course I’m kidding about being cheated out of the “real” Africa. There’s no such thing except for the fantasy one gets after too many episodes of Tarzan. And frankly, after a few nights sleeping outside in Kiffa with no mosquito net (and no bites the next morning), I might say that pictures of the Cameroonian rainforest will suffice, thank you.

=== Your Hassaniya is…a Joke ===

Hanging around at Sydu’s today I made myself comfortable on a stack of boxed milk as the chair were all taken. This was at the manager's suggestion; normally I try not to sit on the merchandise. Eventually a chair opened up and I pounced on it. “My butt is cooking the milk,”*** I offered in Hassaniya as a justification. One of the guys spoke up after the laughter died down. “Aziza and Fatimatu, they are learning real Hassaniya. But you, Hasan, you are learning JOKE Hassaniya.” It’s true. If it doesn’t rhyme or say something obnoxious, chances are I won’t remember it. I save up lists of meaningless rhyming phrases like “ebkem ib kem” (how much for a mute?) and “atrash b’ash” or (how much for a deaf?), sort of like Eminem preparing for one of his rap wars. Eventually I will meet a Hassaniya rapper and DEFEAT him in his own tongue!

*** Thanks to comedian Lord Carrett for introducing me to the concept of “butt-heat” and it’s workings.